


Perfume My Head With Forgetting

by entertheinferno



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst?, Between Movies, M/M, Recovered Memories, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, fill-in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-21 15:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entertheinferno/pseuds/entertheinferno
Summary: “This is going to sound, like, so fucking weird but I swear to god I know you from somewhere.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look all I have to say is it’s pretty crazy that when John Ashbery wrote “My dearest I am as a galleon on salt billows/Perfume my head with forgetting all about me” he was literally preempting the apocalyptic weight of the gay clown movie and so now I’m here and writing this instead of my 2 senior theses so. 
> 
> I'm just convinced Eddie and Richie met each other at some point in between Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 and this has been sitting with me since I saw the movie so I figured I ought to have at it.

_ 1998 _

Richie is sitting in a bar in midtown that he definitely can’t afford, drinking something he doesn’t remember ordering, probably because he didn’t, wishing he could be anywhere besides here. 

He just bombed his first show at a big comedy club, a gig he got booked for as a favor from a friend doing much better in the circuit than him, and he absolutely blew it. 

Everyone told him when he dropped out of college to move to New York, that the city was the place to be, that he would find his footing. Mostly all he’s found thus far is a penchant for fucking up his jokes and getting more laughs for the fuck ups than for the successes. It doesn’t feel great. 

He has all of these vague memories of being a smartass in middle school, these whispers of comebacks directed towards unseen figures that were juvenile and stupid, usually, but always made people laugh. Everytime he gets on stage he starts thinking about them, and suddenly they flit away. All he can think about is that he doesn’t know anyone in the crowd, and he feels kind of like an asshole, like maybe he’s looking for someone out there specific, someone who would always laugh, but he can’t ever remember who. He doesn’t really know anyone in this city, not yet, so he couldn’t be looking for anyone. It’s just stage nerves, but it gets to him every time. 

He came to the bar with other people, he thinks, but a lot of the night after his set has become blurry with alcohol, maybe with other things, and he’s mostly just twitchy and drunk and looking for anything or anyone to take his mind off of things. 

Across the bar from him there’s a small man sipping on a beer, looking nearly as dejected as Richie feels. He’s wearing a windbreaker and a pretty heinous polo shirt, but he’s cute, with big, sweet eyes and freckles splattered across his nose. Richie doesn’t realize he’s staring until the guy looks up from his drink and catches Richie’s eye and something in his chest stutters. The guy looks bizarrely familiar, and before Richie can think about what he’s doing he’s sidestepping some NYU girl, pitching her body across the bar to flirt with the bartender, so he can move closer to the guy.

He slides onto the stool next to him, taps lightly on the bar, smiling despite the unfriendly reaction he gets. The guy just gives him a hard side eye, like he’s expecting trouble, but Richie can’t stop himself. 

“This is going to sound, like, so fucking weird but I swear to god I know you from somewhere.” 

It’s out of his mouth before Richie realizes it sounds like a line and he should maybe reel it back a little. It’s still pretty uncool to be gay, and he’s still pretty much not out of the closet and, also, he’s not really sure he even knows how to identify if it’s safe to approach a guy or not, but he’s already there, leaning in, hand on the bar, staring at this guy he probably doesn’t know like a fucking creep. 

Fuck. 

The guy looks like he’s contemplating flight, but then he turns his face to look at Richie fully and whatever feeling Richie had in his chest is reflected, suddenly, in the other man’s eyes. It’s like recognition without the context. It’s this weird, flashy, unexpectedly tender thing, and suddenly the tension Richie felt approaching him drains from the air around them, even though nothing has been spoken.

“Yeah, maybe.” The guy says, hesitantly, like he doesn’t really know what he’s getting himself into. 

“I’m Richie?” Richie offers his hand, trying to control the lilt at the end, trying not to feel as nervous as he inexplicably does. 

The guy takes his hand, gives it a firm shake. The grasp lingers for a second, and something like recognition crosses his face, like maybe he gets it too, that weird feeling. “I’m Ed- Eddie.” He says, shaking his head, and suddenly Richie doesn’t want to let go of his hand. He feels scared that if he lets go whatever is slowly dawning on him is going to slip away. 

Eddie does let go, though, and Richie feels his breath catch a little at the loss of contact, in a way he can’t explain at all. 

“I went to school with a kid named Richie.” Eddie says casually, like it’s just coincidence. But then something dawns on his face at the same time as Richie is hit with what feels like a tidal wave of memories, all blurry and unsure, but so familiar, like he couldn’t have possibly forgotten them in the first place. His hand stings where Eddie was holding it, and he clenches it into a fist as all the forgotten things flood back. 

Mostly it’s kind of like the movie montages he saw in the intro to film class he took before he dropped out--these flashes of children that are both familiar and entirely alien to him. He sees himself as if from the third person, screaming nonsense and laughing and fighting and grinning. There’s a beautiful red-headed girl with a cigarette dangling from her smiling lips, a boy whose face he can’t identify stuttering something commanding. Stan, who he remembers suddenly, and like a perfect whole, with his curly hair and his perfectly ironed shirts and his sweet, nervous voice. And then Eddie, little Eddie with a cast, Eddie yelling at him. He and Eddie in a hammock kicking each other so hard it actually hurts, but laughing all the same. All these vivid, stupid things he can’t remember ever forgetting, that are settling in as though they were always there. 

And then more, things that are a little less clear. He and Eddie, a little older, teenagers almost. Eddie still small but growing into his own kind of gangliness, giggling when Richie puts a pair of headphones over his ears and holds him down, makes him listen to a tape that Richie can’t remember the contents of. Richie scooping Eddie up and throwing him over a cliff at The Barrens (and god,  _ The Barrens _ , how could he have forgotten) listening for the tell-tale screech and splash and then stripping out of his clothes in a split-second to follow suit. 

He and Eddie sitting under a tree. Eddie whining about nettles and poison ivy and ticks until Richie, fed up, leans over and presses his mouth to the other boy’s just to get him to shut up. 

It’s as much as Richie can take, and he feels his eyes stinging, realizes he’s maybe about to cry in front of someone he’s not even sure he knows. He wants to squeeze his eyes closed to make it stop, but every time he blinks the images are just a little clearer, just a little brighter. 

“Holy shit Eds.” Richie says, almost breathless, and he wants to reach out and touch the other man like the version of him in his head used to be able to do, but it feels like he’s reaching out towards a stranger. He doesn’t even know what Eddie is thinking, if he’s even seeing what Richie is. It’s terrifying, that he might’ve forgotten something like this, or that he’s so drunk, so fucked up, that he’s imagining the whole thing. 

And Eddie looks terrified. He can’t tear his eyes away from Richie’s face, and they’re bright and wet, the brown of them turned almost gold in the pooling tears and under the strange lights of the bar. 

“Rich…” Eddie mumbles, frowning, like maybe he could be remembering too, and then something flashes behind his eyes, and the frown almost curls into a smile. “Don’t fucking call me Eds.” 

“Holy shit.” Richie says, like a skipping record. He feels like for once in his life he doesn’t have anything to say, and he still sounds like an idiot. 

“What the hell.” Eddie says, and he reaches out towards Richie like he might dissipate in an instant. His fingertips brush against Richie’s jacket, barely touching it, and he pulls back like it might hurt him if he goes any further. He looks like he’s staring at a ghost. 

“Eddie-” Richie says again, but he can’t think of what to say next, doesn’t even know what he could say. Mostly he just wants to touch Eddie, wants to make sure he’s real. Looking at him is like seeing in doubletime, watching this rolodex of images of Eddie at different stages projected onto the body of a man he doesn’t know at all. 

And he remembers being young and strange in his body, waiting for his parents to finally fucking leave and pulling Eddie through the front door of his house. He can’t remember the layout and it’s like they transport from the doorway into his bedroom, giggling, and then he’s pushing Eddie into the bed, pushing their hips together, letting Eddie tangle his hands in his hair and slipping his tongue into Eddie’s mouth, uncoordinated and testing and careful. It’s vivid, anxious, teenage lust that he doesn’t even remember ever having, and it’s this visceral fear of Eddie rolling out from beneath him and saying something brutal, calling him a freak. But they just keep kissing, sighing into each other’s mouth and breaking apart so Richie can crack jokes, even though he can’t remember what the hell he must’ve been saying. 

“Eds I-” Richie says and he reaches out without thinking, reaches for whatever’s closest. He puts his hand over Eddie’s on the bar, and he still can’t believe how much bigger he is than Eddie. His hand covers Eddie’s like a blanket, and he wants to curl his fingers through Eddie’s, wants to tug on him, tug him into himself, make sure he isn’t totally fucking hallucinating this whole thing. 

Eddie flinches for real this time, pulls his hand away from Richie’s, and stands up suddenly. He looks really afraid, and that half-remembered fear Richie felt in retrospect is very, very real. 

“I can’t do this.” Eddie says and rushes out of the bar. 

For a second it’s like he wasn’t even there at all and Richie almost stays, almost turns back to the bartender and gets another shot and lets whatever the fuck all that was slide back into the ether of forgotten things. Then he thinks about carving his initial into the rotting wood of the old trestle bridge in Derry, remembers the shaky hesitancy of the knife when he carved the big ‘E’ next to his own, and he’s up and running out after Eddie. 

He doesn’t have to go far. Eddie’s crouching on the steps of a big office building, digging in his jacket for something. He’s just managed to unearth his inhaler asRichie strides up to him, hands in his pockets, heart beating frantically in his chest. 

Eddie takes a big puff on the inhaler, and he glares up at Richie like somehow this is  _ his  _ fault.

“You never actually needed that shit, remember?” Richie says lightly, teasing, trying to pretend like he doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a heart attack, or a stroke, or  _ something _ . 

“Beep beep Trashmouth.” Eddie says, but he can’t help the smile that quirks the corner of his mouth. 

“Not a chance, babe.” Richie says, softer than he means to, and he crouches down next to Eddie, puts his hand next to Eddie’s foot. 

“Can’t believe I’m fucking sitting on the goddamn sidewalk in New York, do you know how many diseases are probably thriving here? Do you know how many people have probably pissed on these steps?” Eddie groans, puts his face in his hands. 

Richie just wraps his hand around Eddie’s ankle, rubs his thumb in little circles on Eddie’s skin under the hem of his jeans. 

“I can’t believe you’re here.” Richie says, and he can’t keep the wonder out of his voice, can’t stop looking at Eddie’s face. He’s totally strange, and Richie keeps thinking in the shift of the headlights that rush past them that Eddie still looks like  _ his _ Eddie. 

“I can’t fucking believe of all the people I forgot you’re the one I ran into.” Eddie says, but there’s no real bite to it, just an incredulous tremor. 

“Aw c’mon.” Richie wheedles, leaning up towards Eddie, grinning. “You know you’re glad it’s me.” 

“Fuck off, Tozier.” Eddie says, but he lifts his face out of his hands, meets Richie’s eyes. 

He starts to say something again, something spiralling and anxious and nonsensical, and it’s like highschool again: all Richie knows to do is lean up on his toes and press his lips against Eddie’s, to kiss him quiet. It’s a terrible position, squatting in front of him, and he strains his neck, wants to put his hand around the back of Eddie’s neck and hold him still, but if he does he knows he’ll topple the both of them. Eddie snakes his hand into Richie’s hair, tangles his fingers in the overlong strands, and kisses Richie back, unsure, but it’s what Richie needs. It’s all he needs to know that this is real. 

“Come home with me.” Eddie says into Richie’s mouth when they break apart, barely a whisper. “Come home with me so I don’t forget.” And Richie nods. Confirmation from the both of them, finally. He stands and pulls Eddie to his feet, wants to keep hold of his hand just in case, but Eddie tugs it away, tosses him a disdainful look, and hails a cab. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got more of this in my drafts, hopefully post it within the next week. Next scene probably going to be....sexy so avoid if that ain't your speed. 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/beehivescirca99) if you want to
> 
> unbeta'd etc etc.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie’s apartment is somewhere in the village. Richie doesn’t remember much of the drive there, definitely not enough to remember where the hell they are when they get out of the cab and Eddie hands the driver the fare. He spends most of the ride trying to keep control of his hands, keep control of his mouth. He wants to reach for Eddie the whole time, to make sure he’s still there, to hold him, to remember how warm he is, but he’s nervous. The driver keeps glancing back in his rearview at the pair of them. 

His gaze isn’t malicious, even. Just curious, a little wary. Richie’s sure the energy he and Eddie are giving off is pretty weird, and in part he doesn’t blame the guy for his attentiveness, but it still makes him nervous. Like somehow the guy  _ knows _ something that Richie doesn’t want him to know. 

He keeps his hands to himself. 

Eddie unlocks the door to his building, holds it open to let Richie in first. He keeps his eyes down, won’t look at Richie at all, nearly. Richie worries that maybe he’s pushing himself into something that doesn’t belong to him anymore, that maybe he just imagined the whole thing in the bar and he’s making Eddie do something he doesn’t want to. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s frozen at the bottom of the steps until Eddie puts his hand, softly, on the small of his back and pushes him towards the staircase. Eddie’s got his mail clutched in his hands, and when he chances a glance up at Richie, there’s a light in his eyes, behind the nervousness he choreographs with the rest of his  _ entire _ body. That’s something that’s the same, how easy it is to read Eddie. For just a second they’re standing in the narrow entranceway, looking at each other, but it’s like it’s 10 years before, Eddie small and pouting. Just before the light shifts into another shaded memory of green sunlight and summertime, Eddie is pushing Richie harder towards the stairs, and the spell breaks, and Richie stumbles forward, stumbles back into the present. 

“Third floor, first on the left.” Eddie says firmly. 

Richie has never felt so quiet. He can’t find the words, doesn’t even know what he wants to say, so he tramps up the stairs in front of Eddie silently, his brain humming. He feels like he should be cracking jokes, but there’s nothing there. 

Eddie opens the door to his apartment and pushes Richie through, closes the door softly behind them. 

“Rich.” Eddie says gently, once they’re inside. The apartment is small and impeccably clean, almost like no one lives there at all. Richie can’t make out much in the semi-dark, just a worn-out couch and a coffee table with a book on it and a mug that looks half-full. Eddie hasn’t turned the lights on, and everything is illuminated by the one window at the back of the main room, which overlooks the alley behind the apartment and lets the unnatural light of the city back in. 

“Rich.” Eddie says again, and he reaches out in the dark to put his hand on Richie’s arm, warm and small. Wraps it around Richie’s elbow like an anchor. “It’s kind of freaking me out that you’re not talking, man. I don’t like it when you run your mouth either, but this is weird.” 

“That’s not what your mom said last night.” Richie says halfheartedly, like he’s trying to fill in the blanks with something he’s supposed to say. It’s a pretty bad “your mom” joke, as far as they go, but it makes Eddie smile, and he punches Richie in the shoulder. 

“Fuck you, man.” There’s no teeth behind it. Richie looks down at Eddie, looking up at him, at Eddie’s hand on his arm, and  _ wants _ . Wants something more than this tenuous darting around each other. They’re not kids anymore. There’s no hiding ( _ except that there is, always, in so many more ways than one _ ) and Richie shouldn’t have to climb into a hammock and kick just to have an excuse to touch him.

“Why’d you bring me back with you Eds?” Richie asks, and he reaches out, lays his hand on Eddie’s face, strokes his thumb, feather-light, across Eddie’s cheekbone. 

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie whispers and Richie leans down, cranes his neck, and presses his mouth to Eddie’s. Eddie is stiff for a moment, enough to make Richie doubt himself again, and then his mouth goes slack, and he opens up. He clutches Richie’s arm a little tighter, strokes his tongue into Richie’s mouth, pliant and insistent and a  _ lot _ more coordinated than when they were in highschool. Richie thinks maybe Eddie’s had some practice since then, as much as he hates to think about it. They both have. 

It’s a better kiss than the one on the sidewalk outside the bar, but it’s not great. Eddie’s on his toes, using Richie for balance so he can kiss back, but the angle is wrong, their mouths catching awkwardly. Richie makes a decision. He backs Eddie up against the door to his apartment, slides his hands down Eddie’s sides, over his ass. He squeezes, a little too hard, loves the way Eddie hisses into his mouth and bites his lip, then he hooks his hands under Eddie’s thighs and picks him up, uses the door to brace them both so they can catch their balance. 

Eddie squeaks a little, throws his hands over Richie’s shoulders and glares. “Oh fuck you.”

“How’s the view from up there shortstack?” Richie grins and presses a kiss to Eddie’s jaw. 

“I feel like a fucking girl, put me down Tozier.” Eddie says, but he tips his head back to give Richie access to the column of his throat. He’d almost look wanton if it weren’t for the pissy look on his face, and the fact that it’s still Eddie, even after all this time. 

“C’mon princess, you know you love it.” Richie says and licks Eddie’s neck just to make him squirm. 

Eddie pulls a face but then he tangles his fingers into Richie’s hair, tugs Richie around so he can kiss him again. It’s dirty. Eddie kisses him like he’s trying to get Richie to shut up forever, but it’s in a way that makes Richie want nothing more than to keep running his mouth, just to see what else it’ll make Eddie do. 

“Where’s the bedroom, cutie.” Richie says into Eddie’s mouth, grinning when he can feel Eddie bristle in his arms. “Wanna get you out of this ugly shirt.”

“If you keep making fun of me Rich, the only place you’ll be getting out of is this fucking apartment.” Richie just rolls his eyes, kisses Eddie again, sweet as he can, and stumbles through the apartment, making sure to bump his knees against as much as possible, just because he knows it’ll make Eddie mad. 

There’s only two other rooms, and one of them is basically a closet that functions as a bathroom. It’s not a hard guess where to go, even in the dark. Eddie’s bedroom faces the street, the curtains are half closed, light streaking across the room. Eddie’s mattress is on the floor, and Richie sets him down on it gently, leans over him to flick on a lamp. 

Eddie’s face is flushed, his mouth red, his hair a little rumpled. Overall, he looks pretty disheveled, and Richie feels satisfied with that. He grins down at Eddie, leaning over him, and winks, clicks his tongue. 

“Just gotta take a mental snapshot of this one, Kaspbrak.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls Richie down, tangles their legs together. 

Mostly they just kiss, for a while. It’s fine, it’s nice, really. More intimate than anything Richie has done maybe ever, but there’s a point where the tightness in his jeans gets to be a little too much. He rubs himself against Eddie, pushes his hips against Eddie’s thigh, hoping it’ll come across as a suggestion. 

It makes Eddie freeze up a little, though. He pulls back quickly, knocks his head against Richie’s. 

Eddie says “ow” at the same time as Richie starts to apologize and then they’re both talking over each other. Nothing either of them says makes sense so Richie puts his hand over Eddie’s mouth. 

“Shut up, jesus. Sorry, I just, well I thought-” Eddie bites his hand, way harder than necessary and Richie pulls away, frowns at Eddie. 

“What the hell.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Eddie says gently. He takes the hand he just bit and presses a kiss to the palm, slides his fingers in between Richie’s. “It’s okay, I want to, it’s just-” He pauses, shakes his head, and Richie thinks he gets it. 

“No, I know, it’s a lot.” 

“I just-” Eddie sighs, frustrated. “Fuck. I just don’t get it. I don’t, why did we forget? There’s these big black spots, still, and they’re fucking freaky.” 

Richie nods, squeezes Eddie’s hand. 

“I know, I don’t get it either. I can’t really remember everyone.” It’s feels like he’s confessing something awful but Eddie just nods. 

“I’m glad you’re the one, though.” Richie says, quietly, almost afraid. He feels teenaged again, worried about how Eddie will react, but Eddie just leans up to kiss him again. This time it’s more frantic, needy, like if they stop now they’ll lose it all and won’t be able to start again. 

Eddie fumbles with Richie’s belt buckle, with the button and the zipper. It takes a little negotiation but then they’re stripping off their pants, pulling off each other’s shirts. Eddie strokes Richie’s cock, wraps his fist around it, lets him fuck into the tightness of his hand. It’s good but it’s not what Richie wants, really. He pulls Eddie closer to him, spits on his hand, and grasps both of their cocks, jerks them off together, slowly. 

Eddie gasps into his mouth, makes these quiet needy sounds that Richie wants to swallow. Eddie mouths at his neck, at his collarbones, sucks a mark into the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

They come together, shuddering, Richie mumbling nonsense words into Eddie’s ear. 

Shockingly Eddie doesn’t get up, after, he just grabs a tshirt from the floor and cleans them both off, turns of the light, lets Richie pull him up flush against his chest and wrap his arms around him. 

Richie thinks Eddie is asleep, listens to his breathing even out, revels in the feeling of holding him again, after so long, but then Eddie shifts in his arms, turns a little, so he can look at Richie in the dark. 

“I’m scared we’re going to forget again.” He says quietly, and he sounds exactly like he did when he was younger. 

“I promise we won’t.” Richie kisses him, strokes his hands over Eddie’s sides. Wishes he believed it. 

They wake up early. Eddie has work, or class, or something. Richie’s groggy and horny and hungover, so he mostly just grabs at Eddie, watches him get ready to leave. 

Eddie makes them coffee in his little kitchen, lets Richie manhandle him and kiss him and get in his way. 

Before he leaves he tears a blank slip of paper off of a letter on his coffee table. He scrawls his number on it. 

“Here.” He hands it to Richie, pushes it into his hand and folds his fingers around it. “Call me, I want to see you again. I feel like we have to figure out why the hell we forgot all of this.” 

Richie sticks the slip of paper in his pocket, nods. He pulls Eddie towards him, curls his fingers in the belt loops of Eddie’s slacks. “You sure you just don’t want me to call so you can get laid again?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, pushes Richie away. “Yeah, because what would I do without Richie Tozier’s dick in my life.” Richie laughs, bites the tip of Eddie’s nose, lets him go. 

“You know you couldn’t live without me.” 

The scary part is, it seems like he’s been able to. 

They leave Eddie’s apartment together, and Richie rides the subway with Eddie to his job, pretends like it’s the way he needs to go. He wants to kiss him again, on the platform, when they say their goodbyes, but he’s too scared to. Instead he just pulls Eddie into a bone crushing hug, tries to ignore the tightening anxiety in his chest. 

“Don’t forget to call me, okay?” Eddie says, and he hugs him back just as tight. 

“I won’t.” 

But by the time Richie is halfway back to his own apartment most of the memories have faded away. He feels the folded piece of paper in his pocket when he has to dig out change for the bus, glances at it, can’t seem to remember the name of the guy. He presses his fingers to the bruise under the collar of his shirt, tries to conjure it. He knows it was good, figures he’ll keep the number for a rainy day, apologize if he uses it, feign being too drunk. It happens to a lot of people, he thinks. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s this lingering thought about someone familiar. That the guy, whoever he was, reminded Richie of someone. Or maybe it really had just been a line. He doesn’t know, everything about the encounter has gone fuzzy with the morning. 

He keeps the number though, folds it up and tucks it in his wallet, behind his license. Just in case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad kissing ;( 
> 
> anyway, this is all going in a different direction than i thought when i started this with the intent of it just being some vaguely angsty pwp but now we're here so, we've all got to live with it. 
> 
> I'm not at all familiar with the canon of the book so all of this is really just musings about how the memory-loss sitch goes during the years they aren't in Derry, because I think it's really interesting and also, just ! how come Eddie's so invested in Richie's comedy career if they've forgotten each other .... just a thought ..... just wondering ....
> 
> I think I've got about 2 more chapters (I guess?) of this mapped out so... expect more, eventually? 
> 
> As always, find me on twitter, leave a comment, yell about the horror movies gays with me if you please, thanks. 
> 
> (still unbeta-d (nd i went thru the first chapter nd fixed some stuff so ! lmk if you find any unbearable mistakes))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an intermission, of a sort

Richie doesn’t think about the encounter for weeks. The hickey on his neck fades quickly. It leaves behind a web of pinkish, broken blood vessels that get lighter and lighter every day, until he stops even knowing where to lay his fingers when he gets out of the shower in the mornings. His life gets busy. He gets a job, he makes friends, he does stand-up. He doesn’t have time to think about random, drunken hook-ups with cute college boys who live in Manhattan, as much as he wishes he did. He keeps the guy’s number, though, tucked in with his Maine driver’s license, and his tips from the bar, and the crumpled receipts from the deli down the street. He doesn’t think he’ll use it again, but he likes having it. After a while, he forgets that it’s even there.

Then he starts having these dreams. 

At first they’re more like nightmares. Most of the time he finds himself running through what looks like a sewer system, grey water sloshing up his pant legs. He’s a smaller version of himself, and most of what he feels is absolutely soul-crushing, heart-stopping terror. Something is always pursuing him, always one turn behind him. He can hear whatever it is sloshing, laughing, calling out to him in a cruel, high pitched voice, but when he wakes up he never remembers what it was saying.

Sometimes in the dreams he loses his glasses, and the darkness of the sewer creeps in on all sides, makes him lose his way. Sometimes he doesn’t have eyes at all. In the dreams he's totally blind, feeling his way through the tunnels by touch and sound, trying desperately to escape the voices closing in on him. He always wakes up before they reach him, sweating, fumbling at his face, just as afraid of the dark in his tiny room as he was of the sewer until he can fumble his lamp on and remember how to see again. 

It fucking  _ sucks _ . For weeks Richie barely gets any sleep, waking almost as soon as he falls asleep. He feels like he’s in shambles. He misses work, he forgets his jokes, he sleeps through plans.

Then he forgets his wallet on a fucking bus and he figures his life can’t get any worse. 

Miraculously, someone turns it in, of course without any of the cash or his credit card. He spends 40 minutes on the phone with his bank, shoving quarters into a pay phone outside the bus depot in Queens, trying to get them to cancel it. 

It takes him ages to get back to his apartment and when he does he flops down on his bed, pulls all the shit that’s still in his wallet out and lays down in front of him. $100 in cash, gone, no new card for another week, and no shifts for another 2 days. 

“I’m totally fucked.” Richie groans. He starts unfolding all the crumpled receipts, hoping that there’ll be some money tucked in with one of them, that maybe he’ll have some sort of good luck. 

He doesn’t find money but he does the tiny scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it in neat, square handwriting. 

_ The last thing I need right now is to think about an embarrassing hook up,  _ h e thinks. He throws the number and all the receipts in the empty box of Cheerios that serves as his trash can, and decides to sleep off the misery.

\---

That night, when Richie dreams, he realizes right away it isn’t a nightmare. 

First off, it’s sunny. He isn’t trapped in the sewers. He knows he’s a younger version of himself when he hears his own voice crack when he starts laughing at something he didn’t really hear. He’s on the trestle bridge in his hometown, holding his bike, laughing at a smaller boy who’s with him. 

It’s Summer in Maine and the heat is so sweltering he feels like he could melt. Richie is young and alive and beaming, knocking shoulders with the other boy while they walk. 

“Race you to the barrens?” The boy asks, and he glances over at Richie, eyes shining.

“Only if I get to kiss you on the mouth when I win.” Richie says, and he grins when the other boy blushes bright red. 

“Fuck off!” He shrieks, shoving Richie hard with one hand. “God you’re so stupid.” 

“Aw c’mon.” Richie wheedles, dropping his bike and wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist. “How can you expect me to not wanna kiss when you’re just so damn cute.” 

The boy shrieks again and tries in vain to wriggle out of Richie’s grasp, twisting his body in Richie’s arms. Richie presses a wet kiss to the side of his cheek, cackling triumphantly. 

“C’mon lemme plant one on ya, you’d be lucky to kiss me Kaspbrak.” 

“Lucky my ass.” Richie lets the other boy go, watches him shake himself out. He glares at Richie. “You wish I wanted to kiss you.” 

Then Richie wakes up. He feels weird, but it’s morning, not the middle of the night, and he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, afraid he’d gone blind in his sleep. Mostly he just feels like he was caught up in some kind of lie, or caught out in one. It’s disorienting. 

He takes a cold shower, tries not to think about the way the dream left him both anxious and wanting, and fails miserably at both.

\----

He dreams again the next night.

It’s the same boy, Kaspbrak, though Richie still can’t remember his first name. They’re a little older. Kaspbrak is a little taller (but still stupidly small), lazing around in what Richie sort of recognizes as his teenaged bedroom. There’s movie and band posters plastered on the walls, books tumbling off the shelf and onto the floor. They must’ve been doing homework, papers strewn about, mostly abandoned. 

Kaspbrak is lying on Richie’s bed with his head hanging off the edge, staring at Richie upside down. Richie is on the floor, leaning back on his hands, watching the other boy unabashedly. 

“This is bullshit, homework is bullshit, geometry is bullshit.” Kaspbrak whines, rolling his eyes. It’s funny to watch him do it upside-down; the effect is somewhat diminished. 

“Let’s do something fun.” 

“Like what?” Richie asks. “There’s nothing fun to do in this stupid town, everything’s old and lame, I can’t wait to fucking leave.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes again, and flips over onto his stomach, kicking his legs up behind him. He’s got his shoes on, socks high, wearing stupid, tiny shorts. Richie thinks he looks kind of cute. 

“Ugh, shut up Richie, that’s so stupid, c’mon. There’s gotta be something fun to do, let’s do something fun, I wanna do something fun. God I wish someone else was around you’re so  _ boring _ .” Kaspbrak speaks so fast it's like one long, frantic sentence that just keeps bleeding into itself. He shoots Richie a little side-eyed glance, like he knows he’s just saying that shit to see if it’ll get Richie riled up. Richie flops onto his back and waves his hands. 

“That’s  _ definitely _ not what your mom said when I came over last night.” And Kaspbrak snorts and scoffs at the same, throws a wadded-up piece of paper at Richie’s head. 

“When is that joke gonna get old? It wasn’t funny the first time and it’s definitely not funny now.” 

Richie just shrugs. “I dunno, probably when you stop losing it every time I make one. You’re just so cute when you’re mad, how can I stop myself.” He doesn’t look at Kaspbrak when he says it, but he can feel his face heat up, just a little. 

Kaspbrak groans and throws another piece of paper at Richie, swings his body around so all of it is on the bed and he doesn't have to look at Richie.

“Sooooooo boring.” He moans. 

“Fine.” Richie sits up, looks at Kaspbrak lying there, smiles. He scrambles to his feet and over to his desk, digs around in his drawers for a moment. 

Kaspbrak’s mostly ignoring him, which is perfect. Richie unearths a walkman and a tape labeled, simply, “E”, and slips it in. 

“I’ve got somethin’ to show you.” Richie says and he launches himself onto the bed, straddles Kaspbrak, and shoves the headphones over his ears. 

The tape starts to play, and Richie mouths along to the first track. It’s a shoddy recording of himself, staticky and hard to understand. 

_ ...Kaspbrak, this tape was made in order to declare my deep, undying love for you and your hot ass in those red gym shorts. Saw you kissing up on that girl from your bio class the other day and I was so overcome with emotion and jealousy all I could do was make you this tape. I was going to come play it for you outside your window with my dad’s boombox a la John Cusack in  _ Say Anything  _ but I thought your mom would probably kill both of us so I decided the better option was to find a way to make you listen to it. These songs have been expressly selected and curated in order to illustrate my deep, gay desire for you and your cute face and also your butt. If you like me back check yes and send a return tape in the mail, thank you _ . 

Kaspbrak’s face is bright red and he squirms under Richie, reaches up to take the headphones off. 

“Richie, fuck off you’re such a dick.” He says, but there’s a smile under it, and Richie just pushes at his wrists and clamps his own hands over the headphones so Kaspbrak can’t take them off. 

“Sorry, you asked for fun, you gotta listen.” 

Kaspbrak just turns more red, but stops wriggling, and the track changes. It’s another bad home recording, Richie violently strumming power chords on a poorly tuned guitar. He couldn’t figure out how to record the instruments separately so the sound is all jumbled, but he watches as Kaspbrak’s face shifts, and he realizes what the song is. 

Richie does, he likes to think, a pretty decent Rick Springfield impression, and this is his best work to date. It’s an idiotic cover of “Jessie’s Girl” but instead of it being about wanting his best friend’s girlfriend, it’s about wanting to  _ be  _ his best friend’s girlfriend. Richie thinks it’s hilarious. Kaspbrak, perhaps, does not. His face goes even more red, and he pushes Richie hard, pulls the headphones off, halfway between laughing and yelling. 

“You’re such an asshole!” He says, pushing Richie again, but Richie grabs Kaspbrak’s shoulders and croons the modified chorus at him, yelling in his ear. 

“ _ God _ I wish that I was Eddie’s girlllll.” He yells and Eddie (Eddie, Jesus,  _ Eddie _ ) giggles and squirms and yells at him. It devolves into a half-assed tussle, mostly just rolling around on Richie’s bed. 

Richie lets Eddie win, lets Eddie get on top, straddling his hips, holding Richie down by the shoulders. They’re both panting and red in the face. Richie’s glasses are askew. Eddie's leaning over him, so close that Richie could count the freckles spread across his nose. He feels his heart clench a little. 

“Can’t believe you’re gay for me, Tozier.” Eddie says, but it’s not mean, just teasing and maybe a little bit curious. Richie just grins up at him. 

Then he wakes up. 

\----

Honestly, Richie almost thinks the nightmares might’ve been better than the weird, fake-memory, teenage gay dreams. They’re cute and all, but they just end up making him sad when he wakes up, and also (in a way that he thinks is probably kind of gross?) sort of horny. He also thinks it’s just a cruel joke for the universe to play on him. After weeks of terrible luck and nightmare induced sleeplessness, the return investment is just a reminder that he’s been really lonely since he moved here.

He whines about it the next night, working the closing shift at the shitty dive bar he’s unfortunately employed at. He’s working, at least, with his friend Val, which makes anything bearable. Richie loves her, she's butchy and no-bullshit and she always, always lets him complain. 

She mostly just rolls her eyes and ignores him the first few times he brings the dreams up but, when they’re closing and he starts talking about it again, she finally shuts him down. 

“Rich, c’mon. Get it the fuck together. This is clearly just because your closeted-ass needs to get laid.” 

“Fuck off.” Richie says, but she might be right. “I just think it’s weird that I went from like, weeks of nightmares to this.” 

She shakes her head. “Well did anything weird happen the day that you had the first one?” 

Richie shrugs, thinks about it. “I dunno. I guess it was the day I lost my wallet, yanno?” 

“I hate to break it to ya, but that’s not that weird for you.” Richie scowls and Val laughs. 

They're quiet for a bit, just trying to clean shit up and usher the last people out of the bar. Richie's still thinking about her question. 

“Oh fuck!”

“What? Did you break something?” Val turns to look at him. He’s standing behind the bar, holding a pint glass, shocked into stillness. 

“When I lost my wallet I found the number of the guy I slept with like, forever ago.”

Val just shakes her head and goes back to mopping. “Honestly Tozier, it’s probably, like, a sign from the universe or something. You just need to get laid. You should call the guy.” 

"I can't call him, I can't even remember his name!"

Val just looks at him, disinterested. 

"Clean faster so we can get the hell out of here, please."

\-- 

When Richie gets home, early in the morning, he digs through the Cheerio box until he finds the scrap of paper with the number on it. He sets it on the table next to his mattress and resolves to call. Then he collapses into bed, still in his work clothes. 

He dreams again. 

He and Eddie are walking through the woods, aimless, sweaty. 

"Wanna go swim?" Eddie asks, looking over his shoulder at Richie.

Richie shrugs and nods. They switch paths, cutting through the thick underbrush towards a broken fence and a cliff overlooking the water. 

Eddie stares down, quietly. Richie watches him. 

"I know we've been doing this since we were little but sometimes jumping still freaks me the fuck out." Eddie says, still staring. "Like, what if I undershoot and hit the shallow part and fucking, like, break my legs or something and then I drown in like 6 inches of water because I like can't get myself up to breathe."

Richie conceals his laughter. 

"D'you have your inhaler?" He asks, and Eddie spins around and scowls at him. "Fuck off I don't need it why would I have it?" 

"Just making sure." Richie says and then he picks Eddie up and before the other boy can say a thing runs forward and hurls him over the cliff's edge. Eddie shrieks on the way down, swearing and then hits the water with a loud splash. 

Richie strips off his shirt and his pants and, with a running start, launches himself off the cliff. The last thing he hears before he hits the water is Eddie yelling "Fuck you."

He stays under for a long time, holding his glasses to his face with one hand. He can see Eddie's feet kicking nearby, thinks about swimming over to grab them. Mostly though, he just wades in the deep part, lets his thoughts drift. He feels unidentifiably sad, in this strange, angsty kind of way. It's not an unfamiliar feeling but the source is hard to identify. He gives himself a second. 

When he resurfaces Eddie shrieks again and paddles towards him, scowling. 

"What the fuck I thought you fucking drowned, are you kidding me you asshole!" He splashes Richie, and then swims closer, throws his arms around Richie's neck. It's half a hug and half an attempt to push Richie under water again but Richie just wraps his arms around Eddie and holds them both up, kicking his legs furiously. 

"Aw, I didn't mean to scare you cutie." Richie says, grinning, holding Eddie tight. Eddie doesn't let go, just kicks his feet against Richie's. 

"It just scares me sometimes, still. I worry about you, asshole." 

Richie smiles wider, presses a wet kiss to Eddie's temple, revels when Eddie doesn't push him away. 

\----

Richie wakes up at noon, trying in vain to understand what the fuck that last dream was. It feels a little bit like he's watching a movie he forgot about out of order, except he's the star. It's freaky. They almost feel like memories, except he's absolutely sure none of what he's dreaming about could've happened. He doesn't remember much about growing up, but he's absolutely fucking sure he'd remember this shit, if it was real. 

He spends a few hours putzing around his apartment trying to shake off the feeling of the dream. Then he remembers the number. He goes back to his room, picks it up, thinks about calling. Maybe it was a fake number. Maybe it’s disconnected. Maybe the guy moved. There's so many reasons to just put it back in the trash and forget about it. But he can't stop thinking about the dreams, and about what Val said the night before. 

He decides he needs to get his shit together and do it. There's no harm in trying. 

He picks up his landline, dials, lets it ring twice, and hangs up. Then he realizes he’s kind of being a pussy about the whole thing and dials again. 

He gets the voicemail. He's almost disappointed and then he remembers that, like, most normal people aren't just hanging out at home at noon on a Thursday. People have, like, normal jobs, or school, or whatever. He kind of thinks this guy might've been a student? He doesn't remember.

A vaguely familiar voice filters in over the phone line and interrupts his thoughts. “Hi, you’ve reached Eddie Kaspbrak, please leave your name and number after the beep. Also, mom, if this is you, please stop clogging up my mailbox and I’ll call you soon. Yes I’m fine, yes I’m getting enough sleep, yes I am eating and taking my vitamins. Okay, thanks.” Richie can’t hold in his laughter, and when the phone beeps in his ear to signal that he can leave his message it catches probably ten seconds of his giggling before he gets it together enough to speak. 

“Uh, hey man, this is Richie? We met a couple weeks ago at a bar in Tribeca, I think? We had a pretty nice time together, I thought. You gave me your number after, and I guess I uh... well, I dunno. I guess I thought if you wanted to grab a drink or something, give me a call?” 

He recites his number and then hangs up, puts his phone back on the receiver. He doesn’t realize until he’s back at the bar that night that it’s pretty weird that the guy he hooked up with whose name he couldn’t remember has the same name as the boy from his dreams. He chalks it up as just another sign from the universe that he needs to get laid and tries not to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this one!! really wanted to integrate some scenes from when they were younger into this, so I hope the whole dream-scenario worked out, and I figured it would be nice to have something a little more lighthearted, since the last chap was kinda sad. More coming soon! 
> 
> As always, hit me up on twitter, leave a comment, talk to me about these boys! Y'all have been so sweet so far, thank you for the support! 
> 
> (un beta'd as usual but i actually remembered to proofread this one before posting so hopefully there's fewer weird errors)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more dreaming

It’s been days and Eddie still hasn’t called back. Richie’s basically given up hope, is trying to chalk the whole thing up to an unsurprising slip. The number exchange was a mistake. The guy isn’t interested anymore. Or, maybe, he doesn’t even remember. Richie would hate to get a message like the one he left, probably. 

The thing is, the dreams don’t stop even though Eddie hasn't called. They’re less distinct now, usually just hazy memories riddled with a feeling of tenderness that is both totally alien to how Richie moves through the world and deeply familiar. It’s always the same boy, he knows, and it freaks him out a little more, knowing where the name came from. He feels like maybe he’s projecting something onto this random guy, like all of the loneliness he’s accrued living with one foot still in the closet for the last decade, is manifesting itself into these wish-fulfillment dreams of misplaced childhood. 

He really doesn’t remember much from being a kid other than an indistinct knowledge of how wrong it was that he wanted what he did. Like, he knows somehow that he spent a lot of time hiding from himself, and maybe hiding himself from the people around him. He was gay and young and knew that people like him were dying and nobody cared why or how. 

Even here, when he can just take the subway into the gay neighborhoods, where he can watch Dyke TV on public access, he still gets scared. He spends about 95% of his time pretending he isn’t what he is, and still tells jokes on-stage about made up girlfriends. Maybe he’s got more than one foot in the closet. 

He dreams one night about the two of them getting into a fight in the woods. He’s not sure what it’s about, even, just that he’s furious, sweating with the effort of shouting back at Eddie. Eddie’s face is flushed and ugly, a ruddy color, and his eyes look wet. It’s probably over something stupid, the way teenagers can manage to fight over nothing like it’s the end of the world. But Richie feels so hurt, so betrayed, and he can’t even figure out why. It’s not just because he doesn’t remember what started the fight; it’s because it’s Eddie he’s fighting with, and it feels wrong, somehow. 

“You’re such an asshole, Tozier! I always convince myself you’re not going to be a dick and you always fucking prove me wrong. God, I fucking hate you sometimes.” Eddie’s voice and body deflate halfway through, and by the end of the shouting he seems so small. Not even angry anymore, just sad, staring down at the scuffed toes of his hi-tops. He looks up, once, looks Richie in the eye, and whatever feeling is rushing across his face is horrible to look at. Richie feels his throat close up, wants to say something, feels himself start to, but it's insensitive, a joke to try and break the tension, so he clamps his mouth shut. 

“I can’t believe you.” Eddie spits out, and he turns around and storms away, pushing through the underbrush. Once he’s out of sight, Richie sinks to the ground and lets out a quiet, torn sob. It wracks his body like an earthquake, and he wraps his arms around himself, lets it take hold. 

\--

Richie wakes up feeling awful. His face is sticky-tight like it always gets when he’s cried, and he goes into the bathroom, splashes water on his face until his eyes don’t look so puffy and red. This weird guilt follows him for the rest of the day, while he grocery shops, and reads, and tries to write. When he goes to work he’s tense and terse, unable to flirt and joke with the regulars the way he normally does. Val sends him home early, tells him to get his shit together. She looks concerned, watches him closely when he slams out the door, jacket thrown over his shoulder. 

He gets a six pack on the way home, drinks one on the subway. Won’t make eye contact with anyone. He falls asleep on his couch, beer in hand. 

The next dream feels like it picks up right where the last one left off. It’s nearly sunset and Richie is wandering through the woods, kicking branches and stones, pouting. Dream-Richie seems to know where he’s going, but the part of the real-Richie that’s still conscious has no idea where they’re headed. 

Richie stops at the half-concealed entrance of the clubhouse (something that shouldn't feel familiar but real-Richie feels deep in his gut, stirring in his sleep), and pulls the door open, descending slowly. Eddie is lying on the hammock, one foot on the ground, holding a flashlight that he waves back and forth, tracking the path of the light with his eyes. He barely glances in Richie’s direction when he notices his entrance, just flits his gaze to him for an instant, before turning his focus back to the beam of light. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you right now, Rich.” Eddie says. “Go away.” 

Richie stands beneath the entranceway and watches Eddie, his hands in his pockets. 

Eddie glances at him again, his face schooling itself into a scowl. “Seriously Richie. Fuck off. I really, really don’t wanna see you right now.” 

“Okay fine.” Richie says. He pulls off his sweater and crosses over to Eddie, draping the garment over his head, before climbing into the hammock with him. 

“What the fuck.” Eddie says, reaching up to pull the sweater off, but Richie reaches across and pushes Eddie’s hands away. 

“If you leave it on you don’t have to look at me.” Richie says. He doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hands, just pulls them down from his face and towards his lap. If they were still small they probably could’ve fit in the hammock together almost comfortably, but now it’s comically small. Richie frees one of his hands and pulls up Eddie’s foot, rests it in his lap, and braces his own on the ground so he can rock them back and forth. 

“I’m sorry, Eds.” Richie strokes his thumb across Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie’s gone curiously still, but he tips his head to the side slightly, like he’s letting Richie know he’s listening. 

“I don’t know what else to say, really.” Richie says. “I don’t. Hmph.” He sighs, runs his free hand through his hair. 

Eddie pulls his hand away from Richie’s and reaches up to take the sweater off. His hair is rumpled, his cheeks flushed, collar askew, and Richie wishes he could just reach out and fix it, stroke his thumbs across Eddie’s cheeks and kiss him. The thought of doing it is terrifying. That’s really, he thinks, why they fight. He’s so scared of what he wants to do with Eddie that he resorts to being obnoxious and, at times, simply cruel, because it seems like the only other option is to let his guard down, to let Eddie see. 

“Close your eyes, Rich.” Eddie says, and Richie does it without thinking. He feels Eddie’s hands on his face. It’s a featherlight touch, just Eddie’s fingertips, brushing against Richie’s face. He starts at Richie’s chin, traces the bow of his lips, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his ears. Then he takes Richie’s glasses off, and his hands are gone and Richie feels cold, is left wanting and wanting. 

He opens his eyes and can barely see. Eddie is just a smudge of color and shapes in front of him, a suggestion of a person. 

“Sometimes,” Eddie says, and Richie can sort of see him fiddling with the arms of the glasses, folding and unfolding them. “Sometimes you’re so, so sweet to me, and I think… I don’t know, Rich. Sometimes I think you’re my best friend and sometimes I think I hate you and sometimes I don’t know what I want except for that I wanna be with you, and even when you make me crazy and I don’t see you for days, I feel weird. I always feel weird around you, like. Like, I don’t know if I’m supposed to, you know? And you make me so mad sometimes, and I just wanna fucking punch you in the mouth so you stop saying shit at me except I don’t want to hurt you. But you’re always switching back and forth and I don’t know! I don’t ever know what you want and it makes everything so fucking stupid.” 

Eddie sighs so hard that Richie can feel the breath ghost across his face. He breathes in and out slowly and tries to decide what he needs to do. It feels, suddenly, like the world is going to collapse around him. 

“And it’s so annoying-” Eddie starts again, then stops, like he’s not sure if he should say what he’s about to say. “Like, I feel like I can’t even say any of this to you if you can see me so I’m holding your fucking glasses like that makes it any different and now I’m like I can’t even give them back to you because if I do you’re going to know what I said and you’re going to see me and I fucking hate it.” 

“Eds, gimme.” Richie says softly, and he reaches across their bodies to take them, gently, out of Eddie’s hands. He slides them onto his face, watches Eddie’s face come into focus. He’s blushing pink across his nose and his cheekbones, his foot shaking against Richie’s thigh. He looks so scared and so small; so much smaller than Richie is used to seeing him. Eddie might be tiny in stature, but the way he takes up space isn’t, and it’s been a long time since Richie has looked at him and really been struck by how fragile Eddie’s body can seem.

“C’mere.” Richie says and Eddie does his best attempt at crawling towards him in the hammock. It’s awkward and kind of impossible to move, but then Eddie twists around and settles in between Richie’s legs, his back pressed to Richie’s chest. Richie drapes one arm across Eddie’s waist, and threads his fingers through Eddie’s.

“I just get scared, I guess.” Richie says, quietly, and Eddie nods, squeezes Richie’s hand tighter. Eddie's head is tucked under Richie's chin and Richie shifts, cranes his neck to press a kiss to the crown of Eddie's head, trying desperately to get it to say what he doesn't have the words for. "You know?"

“Yeah.” Eddie says quietly, and he turns around to try and look at Richie and somehow, in the movement, the readjustment, their lips catch on each other's, half intentional, half not. Eddie blushes deeper, and turns back around quickly, but he doesn't let go of Richie's hand, doesn't run away. Richie holds him tighter. 

"Me too, I think." Eddie says, quietly.

And it doesn’t feel like good enough of a reason, and it’s not a good apology, but all of it, the kiss, the half-assed confessions, the way their bodies fit against each other, hangs there.

R ichie hooks his hand under Eddie’s knee and pretends that all there is in the world is the low ceiling of the clubhouse, and the two of them, holding each other in the dim light.

\-- 

Richie wakes up in the late afternoon, disoriented and hungover. 

His mouth tastes like sandpaper and he feels grimy with sleep and alcohol. He’s still on the couch, and there’s the sticky stain of spilled beer on the floor by his head. He feels awful, in more ways than one. 

He cleans up the spill, throws away the beer cans, and takes a shower. He stays in the bathroom until the water starts to run cold, and he finally emerges, still feeling off, but clean at least. After he gets dressed he comes back to sit on the couch and survey the mess he somehow made the night before. He's just sitting there, reveling in the feeling of his fuck up when he realizes there’s a blinking light on his answering machine. 

He feels his stomach swoop with nausea, anticipation or maybe the results of last night’s drinking. He’s always sort of been a morning puker when it comes to this shit. After bracing himself for a moment, making sure it isn’t actually his body trying to get rid of whatever’s left over, he checks his messages. 

He recognizes the voice immediately. It’s scary, how close it is to the boy in his dreams. Just a little older, a little tired. For a moment, he almost forgets that the dream was just a dream, that it wasn't something real. That this guy isn't the same as the boy he feels like he was just holding.

_ Hey, this is Eddie? I don’t uh… I’m kind of embarrassed to say it but I don’t totally remember meeting you, I guess? I sort of remember, a little, about what happened or whatever but I would love to get drinks and catch up? Or, uh, revisit? Oh, god. Um. Anyway, you have my number, I guess, and I’m free on the weekends, usually, if you wanna give me a call back and make plans. I… yeah uh, so weird but… well, I don’t know. I guess just call me back. _

There’s no one there to see him but Richie still tries to school his expression into something reasonable, tries to hold back the inexplicable elation he knows is obvious on his face. Eddie called him back. He thinks he might be shaking. The dream from the night before is already fading into a vague sort of memory, murky in the open light of day, but somehow the feeling of dream-Eddie’s hand in his stays, makes his palms ache, makes him want to hold someone. He fumbles with the phone, drops it twice, and then calls Eddie back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorty ! Been really busy but wanted to put something up because it's been ages. 
> 
> Would recommend reading this chapter (especially the last dream sequence) while listening to Thirteen by Big Star, which I think is extremely, extremely applicable. 
> 
> Hopefully posting another chapter in the next few days - on break from school right now so I have a bit of time to write thankfully. 
> 
> As always, un-beta'd. Leave comments send your love. This is definitely going to be much longer than intended but have all the intentions of finishing it, so I hope you stick around (and thank you if you have been!)


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